


damage ensued and tabloid news

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Closeted Character, Drunkenness, Gen, Homophobia, I promise this isn’t as angsty as it sounds it’s mostly just introspective, Implied Sexual Content, Mentioned Kent Parson/OMC, Mentioned ZimmBits, Profanity, Suicidal Thoughts, Trick or Treat 2019, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Jack Zimmermann—hockey’s prodigal son, Bad Bob’s heir, and on a team known for its progressive leadership—might be willing to kiss his boyfriend at center ice on live TV after winning the Stanley Cup, but Kent Parson—who might be an incredible hockey player but who is not, after all, Jack Zimmermann—is not.Kent has too much to lose, and he hates Jack for how much he risked with his stupid display, not even thinking about anyone other than himself.And Kent hates himself, too, for how stupidly, insanely jealous he is.





	damage ensued and tabloid news

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lleu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lleu/gifts).

> Happy Trick or Treat!
> 
> The prompt requested Kent hooking up with someone but being kind of fucked up and emotionally stifled about it. I hope this satisfies.
> 
> The title comes from Hozier.

Everything is swimming a bit, just a little, just around the edges, not so much literally as, as, as. Not literally. Meta-whatsit. Metaphor-ly. Like in a dream, when you can’t quite see something but you know it’s there, half-blurred in the corner of your consciousness. Kent trips, stumbles, bangs into the dirty beige wall, the rough stucco scraping painfully on his uncovered arm. When had he lost his jacket?

Okay, maybe he should get out of here before he falls in the pool and things start swimming literally.

He still can’t find his jacket but thankfully he wasn’t dumb enough to lose his wallet or his phone so there’s a cab to drive his drunk ass home pulling up to the curb not ten minutes later. The driver gives him a dirty look in the rearview mirror but he doesn’t seem to recognize him so Kent lets it slide. He doesn’t feel like vomiting anyway, so it will probably be fine.

The air conditioning in the cab is blasting, even in the chill of the Vegas desert night, and the sweat on Kent’s skin is dried to a clammy chill. Sweat, and other things. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as the buzz from the alcohol starts to fade, allowing back a creeping, unwelcome awareness of his physical state. His phone buzzes; a text from Scraps asking where he disappeared off to.

Kent’s starting to feel more like throwing up now, as his brain settles back into his body and neither is happy with the reacquaintance. He stairs resolutely out the cab window, tracing the faint glow of street lights as they flicker past.

He bounces one knee, anxious to be out of the car. The air freshener smells like pine needles and drain cleaner. He wants to scream, to take a shower, to run ten miles, to pick a fight. To go back to that house and fall into the pool, let the water close over his head and not have to deal with any of this anymore.

Kent bites at a hangnail on his thumb, the pinch of pain enough to pull his thoughts back to the present. Ugh. This kind of bullshit is why he let Scraps drag him out in the first place, as a distraction. Fat lot of good it did.

Not Scraps’ fault, of course, the well-meaning idiot has no idea what has Kent in such a mood. (Well, other than the recent media uproar. _Look, what do I care if Zimmermann wants to kiss his boyfriend? But did he have to make such a big deal about it? It’s fucking inconsiderate, making a scene and forcing everyone else to deal with his personal shit._ – Scraps, after the third time some tabloid reporter ambushed Kent in the Chipotle parking lot in the weeks after that kiss.) 

But it isn’t about Jack Zimmermann kissing his boyfriend on live TV. (Well, it isn’t just about Jack Zimmermann kissing his boyfriend on live TV). And it isn’t even about the barrage of interview requests and interview demands and interview ambushes Kent has had to deal with in the last few weeks. 

Although it is partially that. There’s nothing quite like the stress of lying through his teeth, desperately hoping no one manages to dig up the whole truth of his past with Zimms. Jack Zimmermann—hockey’s prodigal son, Bad Bob’s heir, and on a team known for its progressive leadership—might be willing to kiss his boyfriend at center ice on live TV after winning the Stanley Cup, but Kent Parson—who might be an incredible hockey player but who is not, after all, Jack Zimmermann—is not.

Kent has too much to lose, and he hates Jack for how much he risked with his stupid display, not even thinking about anyone other than himself.

And Kent hates himself, too, for how stupidly, insanely jealous he is.

Which, of course, leads to insanely stupid moves like tonight, hooking up with a guy at a house party _that one of his teammates took him to_.

Because Kent is an idiot.

And it didn’t even help. He just has a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and a burning desire for a shower and a cup of strong coffee. Maybe a time machine, but he’s wanted one of those before, in far more desperate situations than this and he’s never managed to find one. And so, he’ll do as he’s always done—muddle through and work damage control in the morning.

The cab drops him off and Kent makes it to the door before he figures out that his keys must be in his coat pocket. He finally remembers to text Scraps back, asks him to look for his coat, then shuffles around his planter boxes trying to remember if he put the spare key under the geraniums or the azaleas. 

Kit greets him with an affronted meow when he finally makes it inside, annoyed at being abandoned for the evening in favor of less agreeable company. Kent gets her a treat in apology. She’s right, she _is_ better company. He should listen to his cat more.

A shower is the first order of business. His hands and arms are sticky with spilled drinks, remnants of lube are still smeared on the inside of his thighs. He smells like sweat and cigarette smoke and cheap cologne (only the first of those is his).

When he’s clean and dry and smells like chamomile and lemon, dressed in a well-worn pair of Aces sweatpants and a shirt his sister sent him from college, Kent curls up on the sofa, TV playing the mindless noise of some crime drama or another in the background.

There’s a soft thump as Kit hops up onto the sofa, stepping daintily in a circle until she settles down in his lap. Kent sighs, letting his eyes fall closed and his head back against the armrest as her contented purr vibrates through his whole body.

Her fur is silky soft and grounding as he runs his fingers through it, slowly and almost meditative, so as not to disturb her. 

On the TV the murderer confesses. The victim’s mother tearfully thanks the detective. Kent turns it off.

He hates the silence. It lets his thoughts get too loud. But Kit is a warm, purring bulwark against his demons. And he’s tired. He dims the lights and falls asleep. He does not dream.


End file.
